


As A Bowstring

by telperion_15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, First Time, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:59:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telperion_15/pseuds/telperion_15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case makes John tense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As A Bowstring

“Heart failure,” says Sherlock dismissively, having glanced once at the corpse. He turns to Lestrade with a sneer, the _Why on earth have you called me here?_ audible before he’s even opened his mouth.

Then he stops, turns back, and suddenly stoops down until he’s on a level with the dead man’s head. “No, wait, there’s something…”

John, for his part, has taken a similarly brief first look at the corpse, and then has also found it necessary to look elsewhere. It isn’t that he’s squeamish. Such sentiments are a definite handicap when accompanying Sherlock to crime scenes (and, indeed, when one is a doctor).

But there’s something about this one. Something that makes him uncomfortable.

The man is lying on his own bed, in his own bedroom. He’d obviously felt comfortable – not worried, or scared, or apprehensive – because he’s naked, and his hand is curled around his – now flaccid – penis.

It doesn’t sit right with John. The guy had died while he’d been masturbating. And if his heart had given out, then fine. Okay, it’s bad luck for him, but there are probably worse ways to go.

But it wasn’t his heart (and here John feels he’s stolen a march on Sherlock, for once. If it _had_ been that simple, then Lestrade wouldn’t have called them in the first place. Sherlock might be dismissive of the police force in general, but Lestrade isn’t an idiot – something that even Sherlock has been forced to acknowledge on occasion), and that makes things worse. It’s as if he’d been stripped of every bit of dignity, even the dignity of death. Poor bloke.

*~*~*~*~*

Later, after Sherlock’s solved the case (something about slow-acting poison administered by, of all people, the man’s ex-wife’s new partner, who’d been unhappy about the way an acrimonious custody battle was affecting his relationship with her), they return to Baker Street, Sherlock smug and satisfied once again, and John wound up and jittery without really knowing why.

Sherlock heads straight for his laptop and some no doubt _vital_ website updates (and really, he has the audacity to criticise John about his blog?), while John makes a cup of tea that he then leaves to go cold, reads a newspaper that he eventually realises he’s made it a third of the way through without taking in a word, channel surfs for ten minutes before turning the telly off again in disgust, and finally gets into a staring match with Sherlock’s skull, which is grinning at him irritatingly from the end of the mantelpiece.

After a while, Sherlock closes his laptop, and then proceeds to stare at John over steepled hands.

“You’re tense,” he comments, several minutes later.

“Nice of you to notice,” John mutters…well, tensely.

“I always notice, John.”

 _Of course, you notice_ everything.

“Something about the case, I suspect.”

“What?”

Sherlock gives him the _It’s obvious_ look, but then deigns to explain anyway. “You were perfectly fine before we left this morning. In fact, I might even go so far as to describe you as _cheerful_.” The emphasis on word leaves John in no doubt that Sherlock finds cheerfulness to be a generally inexplicable and rather horrific state of being.

“And now I’m not,” says John. It isn’t a question.

“And now you’re not,” confirms Sherlock. “And since the only thing that’s happened in the interim is our visit to 76 Henley Road, Clapham, followed by a trip to Scotland Yard, your change of mood can only be down to the case.”

“Brilliant deduction,” John says sourly. “Really, _really_ quite amazing.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John,” Sherlock points out, unimpressed. Then he continues, “You have, in fact, been tense since the moment you walked into Richard Dixon’s bedroom and saw Richard Dixon’s dead body. And since you do not generally demonstrate any aversion to, or delicacy about, dead bodies in general, there must have been something about this dead body in particular.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then John bursts out, unable to help it, “Christ, Sherlock! While he was _wanking?_ ”

The smallest of frowns crosses Sherlock’s face. “You would have preferred he died while making a cup of tea?” he says. “Or watching the television? Or sitting at his computer? Masturbation is a perfectly normal everyday activity. Why should there be any difference to…”

“There just _is_ ,” John interrupts, through gritted teeth.

“Ah.” Sherlock’s expression becomes understanding. “It offends your sense of delicacy. Of propriety.”

“Don’t be stupid, of course it…” John stops, and makes an effort to gather himself. “Look, I just feel sorry for the guy, okay? He would hardly have expected to die right then.”

“In my experience, people rarely ever expect to die,” Sherlock pronounces. “Even those who _know_ they’re going to still don’t _expect_ it. Denial is a powerful thing, John.”

“Actually, can we stop talking about this, please?” John says. “I’m not particularly enjoying this conversation.”

“Yes, it doesn’t appear to be making you any less tense,” Sherlock observes.

“Are you surprised?”

“No. What surprises me is that you should have ended up in this state in the first place. My observations indicate that over time you have trained yourself to be less affected by the crimes I investigate, not more so. And for those crimes that do result in an increase in tension, you have a tried and tested method for releasing that tension…oh.”

“‘Oh’, what?”

“Forgive me, John. For once I have been a little slow on the uptake.”

“Slow, you? I don’t believe it,” John says, even as he knows that his flattery doesn’t have a hope of diverting Sherlock.

“You feel unable to use your normal methods this time because of the dead man. Or more accurately because of what the dead man was doing when he died. Because he was, as you so colourfully put it, _wanking_ ,” says Sherlock.

“Really, Sherlock, can we _stop_ talking about this,” John grinds out.

“There’s no reason to feel guilty about it,” Sherlock continues. “It’s a perfectly natural instinct, so I’ve been told. And if it works…”

“It’s _not_ guilt,” mutters John. “It just feels weird, all right. Disrespectful or something.”

“But you didn’t even know him.”

“No, but…”

“Do you want me to help you, John?”

“I…what?”

“Well, I presume you are reluctant to help yourself because you think you wouldn’t be able to stop imagining the dead man’s last moments, which would dampen your enthusiasm. Therefore, the logical thing to do is to alter your methods so they no longer resembles the dead man’s.”

“So when you say help…?”

“You know exactly what I’m saying, John.”

Sherlock stands then, and makes his way over to where John is sitting, folding himself to his knees in front of John before John can do anything more than gape stupidly at him.

“Sherlock, wait…”

“It makes sense, John,” Sherlock says. “But if you’d rather not, just say the word.”

John knows what the word is. The word is _no_ , and he should say it right now. He really, really should.

But he can’t deny that the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him (and they’re still practically at eye level, thanks to the tilt of the armchair and Sherlock’s ludicrous height, even when kneeling) is doing odd things to his anatomy. It seems that all his blood has rushed south, and he can feel himself getting hard under Sherlock’s appraising gaze.

And he knows that if he doesn’t do _something_ to get rid of this bone-deep tension that’s all but paralysing him, he’s going to be awake all night, thinking and remembering, and probably regretting, damn it.

John says the word, and the word is _yes_.

Sherlock’s hands are moving instantly, pulling down the zipper on John’s jeans and popping open the button. Almost in a trance John lifts his hips slightly so Sherlock can pull his clothing down just a bit, just far enough that he can reach inside John’s boxers easily and fish out his cock.

John’s not completely hard, not yet, but the feel of Sherlock’s long, clever, cool fingers curling themselves around his cock is enough to bring him the rest of the way in the time it takes the breath to stutter out of him at the sensation.

Sherlock starts simply, a straightforward up and down motion, which is at once nowhere near enough stimulation for John, and at the same time almost unbearably too much. But Sherlock learns quickly. He’s listening to the sounds John makes, watching the way John’s body tremors and twitches, and those fingers, those fingers that John has watched type fast, text faster, wield a pipette with the utmost delicacy, draw beautiful music out of an old violin, and dance through the air as Sherlock expounds on something that mere mortals like John can only dream of keeping up with, those fingers seem to be doing things to him that John has never even _thought_ of.

And yet, the whole time, Sherlock is utterly impassive. His eyes are fixed on his hands as they work John’s cock, but his breathing doesn’t quicken, his skin doesn’t flush, and as far as John can tell (in as much as he can tell _anything_ in his current state) he isn’t aroused in the slightest.

 _It’s a perfectly natural instinct, so I’ve been told._

Wait, does that mean…? What does that _mean?_

But then Sherlock twists his hand, swipes his thumb across John’s slit, and John is coming, messily and far more noisily than he’d like, and his thoughts scatter, slipping from his grasp in tatters.

It takes several moments of panting and furious blinking before John can get himself under control again, and when he does he realises that Sherlock is staring at his hand (the one that was just wrapped around John’s cock, John’s brain helpfully supplies), his mouth pursed in a moue of distaste as he contemplates the dribbles of John’s bodily fluids that are now adorning it.

Then Sherlock wipes that hand on John’s jeans, rises gracefully to his feet, and returns to his laptop, his attention immediately re-captured by whatever it was he’d left on the screen there.

Suddenly, John feels completely and hideously embarrassed. He pulls his jeans and underwear back up, grimacing to himself at the wetness this presses into his skin, and then flounders about for several moments for something to say.

“Sherlock,” he asks eventually, knowing that it’s entirely the wrong thing, but nevertheless unable to keep it in, “are you telling me you’ve never…”

“You’re welcome, John,” Sherlock says absently, clearly not listening to a word John’s saying.

John lets it drop, instead pushing himself upright and heading for the stairs.

He’s still tense, but he doesn’t think Sherlock needs to know that.


End file.
